


Those That Walk in Pride He is Able to Abase

by Elfgrandfather



Category: The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: Bible Quotes, Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Catholicism, Dom/sub, Jewelry, M/M, Nipple Torture, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Public Humiliation, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, old men who don't know how to talk to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27495814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/Elfgrandfather
Summary: Don Cavallo sends Cardinal Assente some presents to celebrate his new position as Secretary of State.
Relationships: Mario Assente/Luigi Cavallo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Those That Walk in Pride He is Able to Abase

**Author's Note:**

> Title's from Daniel 4:37, which has a couple of decent raunchy bits. You may also spot blink-and-you'll-miss-them cameos from Daniels 10:18 and 10:11, and Solomon 5:4.
> 
> Completely inspired by the Discord server where it's Assente bullying hours 24/7. It's basically a PWP that decided to drag on, as they often do.

Gifts were an integral part of Mario Assente’s life.

Priests came, cap in hand, if they suspected an indiscretion might have made its way back to the Prefect. Between stammered apologies and excuses, some slid a little something across the desk. A regional specialty, a bottle with a good vintage, or, if they’d done their homework, a paper bag from the streets around the Spanish Steps. Freshwater pearls and silver from the common Father, diamonds and gold from fellow Cardinals, and everything in between. If a handsome piece caught his eye – and the infraction was small enough – well, a page or two might fall out of somebody’s folder and flutter into the maw of his trusty paper shredder. Not even a month into his role as Secretary of State, and already the presents were trickling in.

He didn’t make a _habit_ of encouraging this behaviour, you understand, but the Mother Church had a fine custom of taking indulgences. If she so stubbornly refused to adapt to the times, who was he to defy tradition?

So when Mario walked into his room at the end of a long day and found a large black box waiting on his bedside table, he wasn’t surprised.

The surface of the package was velvety, topped with an elaborate white satin bow in the upper left-hand corner. Expensive. Bishop, if he had to guess. Maybe to congratulate him on his new post. Maybe from a man who remembered simpler times. When his glasses weren’t as strong and he could still stand _en pointe_.

Chance would be a fine thing.

He tugged at the edge of the bow until it unravelled, dislodging a small piece of cream-coloured card stock hidden underneath. In neat cursive:

_On the occasion of your first diplomatic engagement._

An frown creased Mario’s brow. Behind the card, the box seemed to deepen in colour, suck in the surrounding light.

After a moment, he took a deep breath, and lifted the lid.

\---

Mario Assente made a point of being steadfastly dignified.

In a city-state mired in backbiting and petty squabbles, standing tall and proud put him a cut above. People didn’t need to _like_ him, they needed to respect him. And they did.

In the Apostolic Palace’s _appartamento nobile_ , the visiting French Minister of Education perched on the edge of a Louis Philippe sofa and nibbled on a _ciambelline_ , eyes darting from the looming portraits on every wall to the Secretary of State in the red velour armchair.

It was hard to guess which he found more intimidating.

Timidly, he hazarded a smile. And, drawing on his bottomless well of decorum, Mario smiled back and tried very hard not to think about the insistent pressure of the plug against his prostate.

From the doorway, he knew, Cavallo was smiling.

Last night, in the hermitage of his room, Mario uncovered a mess of precious metals and glimmering jewels, nestled in silk paper the colour of wine. Resting on top was another section of creamy card stock, that same old-fashioned handwriting spelling out:

_Ezekiel 16:17_

Mario didn’t pretend to know most of the verses off by heart, but he’d spent a fair amount of time idly tracing his finger along the vivid images of Ezekiel, and the lines came as if summoned:

_Thou has also taken thy fair jewels of my gold and of my silver, which I had given thee, and madest to thyself images of men, and didst commit whoredom with them._

A shiver ran down his spine, electricity that lit up every nerve and made his cock twitch against his leg.

There were chains; thin, of delicate gold, occasionally connecting behind ruby-studded shields. It took a while to uncoil them, but eventually, he held in his hands the kind of exquisite ornaments he’d imagined adorned Solomon’s wives. Threads which would ghost over his skin, frame the smooth curve of his chest, cling to muscle he worked hard to maintain. Turn him into something precious, too.

What an absurd thought.

Swallowing dry, Mario set the harnesses and adornments on his bed – careful not to tangle them – and fished out a pair of what looked like golden earrings. Simple arabesques fanned out from a circle, run through with a thin bar. A single ruby droplet hung from the bottom, like a Virgin’s tear. They _were_ piercings, but not for the ears. His nipples poked against the soft fabric of his shirt, clamouring for their gift – which was ludicrous. They weren’t pierced, and it wasn’t as though he’d let Cavallo –

He stiffened more, starting to strain against the confines of a cotton prison. His body always _had_ been a traitor. That inescapable march towards old age. The rolled ankle that aborted his dancing career, prayers to St Vitus be damned. The ways of the heart.

Placing the rings beside the chains, Mario cast an uneasy glance over what remained in the box. Three plugs, quite different.

A sterling silver strawberry, with a thin stem that split into two serrated leaves, separated by a flower. It fit comfortably in the palm of the hand, and if it weren’t included in this particular package, it could pass perfectly well as a tasteful paperweight. The surface of the strawberry was pockmarked to mimic seeds, and Mario could picture the uneven surface teasing its way inside, delicious more for the decadence of it all than its modest size.

The second was far less inconspicuous. A classic egg shape, a size above the strawberry, with a wide base. It was made of gold – real gold, judging by the weight, not merely plated. A large red gem decorated the base, sparkling in mahoganies and cherries and roses. At this size, it had to be synthetic. A real stone of this calibre would be wildly expensive.

Not that someone on Cavallo’s salary should be able to afford half these treats. Mario didn’t concern himself with where the money came from. This was the Vatican. Cavallo, of all people, would know how to skim a little cream off the top. Or a little scum, as it were.

Mario might have scoffed at the ersatz gem, if the toy’s colours didn’t perfectly match his treasured crucifix. Would Cavallo want him on the covers, cross resting in the middle of his chest, thighs spread to expose this most private jewel? Or would he want the strawberry, with its flower so obscenely placed. Mario would be on his knees, face down, while Cavallo’s improbably soft hands massaged his thighs, kneaded his ass, pressed and released the silver leaves to slowly, gently tease him inside, until Mario was rigid and dripping and sobbing for a brutal fuck.

He was so hard now it _hurt_. His erection throbbed, beating a drum in his hands, his head. With shaking hands, he started to undo the buttons of his cassock, though he knew he’d leave himself neglected. When he and Cavallo began their affair, masturbation was swiftly traded in for cold showers. He couldn’t remember who suggested it, if it _had_ been suggested – he thought he remembered words murmured between mindless kisses, ‘the Church prizes delayed gratification’ – but he couldn’t be sure. Their conversations often turned fuzzy, as though simply stepping into Cavallo’s rooms drained all the blood from Mario’s head down to places where it would be more useful. It made him feel stupid, weak, and that was good. His workdays were spent thinking, his time alone dwelling on things he could not change. On men whose love he would never know. A blank mind was a blessing.

Removing the _fascia_ from his waist, Mario’s eyes landed on the card, with its sly message.

_On the occasion of your first diplomatic engagement._

That gave him pause.

Was he saying – ?

In shirtsleeves and light slacks, hanging up his second skin, Mario tutted. Their games were one thing. Something between grown men who should know better, but who only had to contend with themselves, each other, God.

He brushed dust off his _pellegrina_ , and watched the dark garment with a frown.

They’d chanced wandering hands behind closed doors, even a furtive kiss. Cavallo pulled him behind a pillar in the San Damaso courtyard one morning, pushed him up against the wall, and ravaged his mouth.

The thought made Mario lick his lips, allow an _innocent_ adjustment of the pleading bulge between his legs. Later, when they were walking to their offices, he’d laced his fingers together, spoken without making eye contact:

‘That was dangerous.’

‘That was the point.’ In that gentle, disarming tone.

‘Someone could easily have seen us. Even the Holy Father.’

‘That’s true.’ The lightest touch, backs of their hands brushing before their paths split. ‘But no one did, and you loved it.’

He _had_ loved it.

And no one _did_ see them.

Mario looked at the open box.

No one would see this. Not if he kept himself in check. How hard could it be? He’d worked through heartbreak, through rage and grief, and none of his colleagues had been the wiser.

Slowly, performing doubt for an unseen audience, Mario wandered back over to his bedside, and studied the third and final plug.

Black, with a lifelike, soft feel, it was the only toy shaped like an actual cock, with a slight curve Mario _kn_ e _w_ would hit just where he craved. The base tapered off into a thin silicone strap, leading to a ring that would wrap tight around the top of the sack, tugging enough to make itself known with every step. It was sleek, clearly of good make, but understated. Not meant for – exhibition, like the other two.

It was the obvious choice.

Now, smiling at the French Minister of Education over a rapidly shrinking pile of wine biscuits, Mario felt the gold chains rub and twist with the slightest movement. They’d been cold when he put them on in the morning, when he’d spent longer than he cared to admit watching the way his body now caught the light. Warmed by his skin and cassock, they’d grown to feet natural, part of his body. Treasured at last.

He crossed his legs, breathed out slowly through his nose at the pull between his thighs, the nudge deep inside him. Focus. No one needed him to be a sparkling conversationalist at these routine meetings, but he wanted to try to avoid another half hour of monosyllabic responses and chewing noises.

‘Well,’ Mario said, and the little man actually jumped in his seat, ‘Mr Abadie. How did you find our Pontifical Roman Seminary?’

‘Oh, er… very interesting, Eminence, truly –‘

‘I know the French don’t really approve of religious schooling, and I have read your own opinions...’

The Minister looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. ‘Only for the children. The adults can do what they want.’

‘Ah, an age restriction on God’s graces.’

A giggle from the corner reminded Mario of Cavallo’s presence, and he couldn’t help but smirk. It was always more fun being catty with an audience. He clasped his hands together, enjoyed the the chains kinking against his stomach as he leaned forward, and prepared to speak.

Only to gasp.

The flustered Minister of Education instantly looked down, groping about himself for the phone suddenly filling the room with a muffled buzz. Stuttering excuses, he kept his eyes firmly on the ground, which was just as well, because the silicone cock humming in Mario’s ass made it very hard to keep up appearances.

Fitfully, he uncrossed his long legs and practically tap-danced on the thick carpet, digging his fingers into the plush upholstery of the chair. The plug’s strap was thick enough to vibrate against his taint, hammering his most sensitive spot inside _and_ out, the ring tugging insistently, trapping his balls in a self-inflicted vice the more he stiffened – and to his horror, he _was_ getting hard, _fast_.

‘I – I don’t –‘ Mario stammered, desperately trying to put scrambled English words into a sentence that would let him leave the room before the Minister knew, before _everyone_ knew –

But just as suddenly as it started, it was gone.

In the abrupt silence, Mario barely heard a quiet voice from the corner over the roar of blood in his ears:

‘Pardon me, Eminence,’ Cavallo said. ‘I thought I’d turned it off.’

The Minister breathed a sigh of relief, too shy to look at the Cardinal’s face, to notice the blush splotching his cheeks, his neck, his ears, the fogged-up glasses, the bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.

From the doorway, he knew, Cavallo was smiling.

\---

Mario Assente was not to be trifled with.

When his office door was closed, that meant it was _closed_ , and woe betide the novice or seminarian who dared barge in uninvited.

In theory, that meant safety.

Mario stood behind his desk, using it as a sort of barrier. The office was still new ground. Voiello permeated the place, from the make and layout of the furniture to the ghostly imprints of _Napoli_ tchotchkes all over the walls. The avuncular assistant was another inheritance from his predecessor. Cavallo stood by the door closed door, smiling like he was in on a big cosmic joke of which his boss was the punchline.

‘If I didn’t know better,’ Mario started, pausing for a quick pull on his cigarette, ‘I’d think you’re sundowning.’

‘What an unkind thing to say,’ Cavallo replied, patient grin unaffected.

‘I couldn’t care less what some French apparatchik thinks of me – or this whole blessed place – but I’m not interested in losing my job because _you_ don’t know when enough is enough.’

‘Because _I_ don’t know?’

‘ _Evidently_ not –‘

‘Most Reverend Eminence,’ Cavallo said, ‘I didn’t tell you to do anything.’

Mario paused, cigarette hanging off his lip. He scoffed.

‘I keep track of who sends me that kind of package –‘

‘I did send it. Did you like your jewellery?’

Under the cassock, the gold chains flashed hot on Mario’s skin. Evenly, Cavallo continued:

‘You read my notes. Congratulations on a milestone, and a thematic devotional. No instructions, not even a suggestion.’ His eyebrows moved up just a tad. ‘Unless the parcel was tampered with?’

‘Don’t –‘

Mario paused. _Don’t bullshit me_? And then what? An end to their sordid little arrangement? It’s what he should do. He knew that. Tear his hand out of Cavallo’s grip down this primrose path. Focus on work, on the new Pope he so deeply respected, on –

Loneliness.

He cleared his throat. Tapped a caterpillar of ash into the tray below.

‘If you didn’t mean for me to… _wear_ your gifts today,’ Mario made sure to roll his eyes as he stressed the word, ‘why bring the remote to the meeting?’

Cavallo’s smile faltered, just a tad. He locked the door. Outside, church bells marked midday, masking the sound of his shoes loping in a steady line. Reflexively, Mario took a step back, then forced himself to stand firm, heart racing not in fear, but with expectation. By using the desk as a shield, he’d backed himself against the tall bookshelf, and that’s precisely where he was when Cavallo came to a halt, chests and faces a hair’s breadth apart. The sharp scent of his aftershave cut through the smell of tobacco. Mario’s cock started to harden.

Casually, Cavallo plucked the fag from his hand, took a deep drag.

‘I brought the remote because I knew you’d _choose_ to wear the plug, and I wanted to make my whore’s debut a little more memorable.’

A fulminant blush spread to the tips of Mario’s ears. ‘I –‘

‘You?’

Beat.

Just as Mario’s lips parted to reply, Cavallo inhaled from the cigarette, gripped Mario’s hair, and crushed their mouths together to blow a lungful of smoke down the Cardinal’s throat.

Mario broke off with a cough, stumbling against the desk, almost slipping on the _zucchetto_ fallen from his head.

‘I think,’ he heard Cavallo say, ‘that it’s still inside you, right now. I can check.’

He fetched the remote control from his jacket’s inside pocket.

‘And I think you’d like me to check.’

The church bells finally finished their call, and the silence that followed was all the heavier. It wasn’t a rhetorical question. If an answer didn’t come, Cavallo was perfectly willing to make an early exit and leave their encounter to be continued. Mario only needed to keep quiet, dismiss his assistant, return to work.

‘Yes.’

Cavallo’s smile grew wide again, and he swiped his thumb over the scrolling wheel to kickstart the vibrator into a heavy pulse. Instantly, Mario doubled over against the desk with a throaty whine, all thoughts jumbled by the return of that double buzz that had him stiff in seconds flat. Disoriented, he let Cavallo turn him around so they were facing each other again, watched him perfunctorily undo the red buttons of his cassock, then his shirt, to expose Mario’s muscular body to the cool air of the office.

‘Beautiful boy,’ Cavallo murmured.

When he’d spoken these words unto him, Mario stood, trembling. He breathed out a shaky moan at the fingers feathered over his chest, catching on each delicate strand of gold that hugged his dancer’s frame.

‘Do they suit me?’ he asked, voice thick with lust.

‘You’ll wear them and nothing else from Friday night to Monday morning.’

Mario nodded, hips writhing from the plug and his now painful erection. His bed hadn’t been empty _every_ night since he’d moved to Rome, but he was careful. Trysts with visiting clergy, the rare evenings he let himself step out, stolen hours in hotel rooms at foreign conferences – he could count the partners he’d had over the last five years on one hand, and none of them knew about these desires. None of them had pierced through his armour this effectively, kept him in such a lusty haze for so long.

No time to think about the hole in his heart when all the others were full.

With a quick glance downwards, Mario was pleased to note the growing erection struggling against Cavallo’s flies – and it was _growing_. Horse by name, horse by nature. He’d never _claim_ a size queen label, but he certainly fit the criteria, and he greedily pressed a hand to the outline on Cavallo’s thigh, made a noise at the back of his throat at how firm it was.

His dark eyes snapped back up when Cavallo pinched his nipple and twisted. He was impassive as ever, but colour dusted his cheeks now, a predatory glow shone in his watery gaze.

‘What do you want?’ he asked.

Mario chuckled, but Cavallo’s finger and thumb only squeezed tighter, exquisite agony.

‘Say it.’

The waves of pleasure coming up from his ass and down from his chest seemed to clash in his stomach, form a roiling pool. He couldn’t say it – couldn’t _hear_ himself speak the words. It was too much.

Wasn’t it?

‘Please,’ Mario whispered, barely audible over the hum coming from within.

‘Please? Please what, darling?’

He knew what Cavallo wanted, but even _now_ – there was a difference between being in this position, and _acknowledging_ it. It didn’t make sense, but if he wanted logic, he wouldn’t have answered the Call.

Compromise.

‘Please, _Monsignor_.’

Though it wasn’t quite what Cavallo wanted, a wicked glint still crossed his face. He relaxed his hold.

‘We need to work on your communication skills. At least you’re polite.’

Cavallo released the tortured nipple, closed his lips around it and sucked hard, pulling until his mouth popped off. Mario looked at his chest, one side blotched red, and let Cavallo slide down his slacks and underwear. The cassock was unbuttoned just low enough for him to step out of it, shivering as the air hit his cock, colder where precome had smeared all over the head.

Cavallo swiped papers to the floor and closed his arms around Mario to easily lift him up onto the desk, and those seconds of full contact, of that solid body against his own, the casual strength with which he was picked up off the ground – they were almost enough to make Mario come, but he couldn’t. The ring around his balls stung too much, and besides, he wasn’t finished.

_They_ weren’t finished.

Standing between Mario’s thighs, the sound of the plug so much louder without fabric in the way, Cavallo rubbed the strong muscles of his legs, keeping eye contact.

‘You’ve been good.’ A playful flick of the abused nipple. ‘Mostly. I’d like to fuck you.’

_I’d like to fuck you_ , spilling forth in such a helpful, soft tone, did something to Mario. He hadn’t known he could feel this way. Did the Church make him like this – or did he come to it because he’d _always_ been like this? _Made_ like this?

Even through his need, he had the presence of mind to repress an eager nod, managing a semi-dignified noise of affirmation instead. Cavallo’s hands rested high up on Mario’s lap, carefully avoiding contact with the stiff, dribbling cock between them.

‘But, Eminence, I wonder if it’s wise.’

Mario blinked.

‘You said it yourself,’ he continued, stretching out a thumb to toy with the underside of Mario’s shaft, slowly, almost _indifferently_ , ‘we have to know when enough is enough. The Holy Father is on the next floor.’

‘It’s not the same,’ Mario breathed, intensely aware of every place Cavallo’s skin touched his, ‘there’s no one here but us.’

‘No one but God?’

Mario didn’t say anything, but his big Byzantine eyes pleaded, his knuckles white on the edge of the desk. The ecclesiastical ring dug into his skin, the pledge of his betrothal of God, a promise of virtue and faith.

Cavallo’s smile softened. There was something like affection. He took Mario’s glasses off and put them on a shelf, a safe distance away.

‘Can you keep quiet?’

‘You know I can.’

He’d barely got the last word out when Cavallo finally, _finally_ wrapped a warm hand around his neglected prick, moved his wrist ever so slowly, teasing Mario’s skin up the head, milking pearls of clear precome until his fingers dripped with flowing myrrh. Mario barely managed to choke back a moan, releasing it in a long, quiet whine. With his free hand, Cavallo lifted Mario’s chin, savouring the tears of relief springing up between those long lashes.

‘If your Eminence has the nature of a bitch in heat, it’s my duty to serve.’

Mario hungrily took Cavallo’s tongue into his mouth, sucking and working it against his own to stifle treacherous groans. His blood was a swarm of butterflies, fluttering against the walls of his heart and down every vein and artery as Cavallo switched the plug off and eased it out, all but purring in approval at how willingly Mario’s hole took his thick fingers, how _well_ Mario had prepared for someone who claimed to be above these tricks.

The truth was that he felt more at home in the gutter than he’d ever admit. Not after he’d fought so hard to claw his way out in the first place.

The relief when Cavallo’s slick hand took the ring off his balls was instant. He felt them tighten, felt himself stiffen more than he thought he could, keened in anticipation when he heard the sound of unzipping and felt the heat of Cavallo’s cockhead primed at his hole.

But.

‘This won’t do.’

Mario leaned back. Not now. He could shift his weight forward and he’d have half the length inside straight away. Please, God, not like this, they were _so_ close. Cavallo couldn’t send him home in this state. That had to be a bigger sin than anything else they’d done today.

‘I’m afraid you’re being much too loud.’

‘I’m not making a sound.’

‘You know how people are around here. They’d hear passion from behind ten closed doors. But don’t worry.’

He shoved Mario down flat on the desk, and held up the scarlet _fascia_ he’d slipped off the cassock. He wound the scarf around his knuckles a few times, leaving a slack section between them, lay his hands either side of Mario’s face, pulling the fabric taut over his mouth.

‘There. Necessity is the mother of invention.’

And he slammed himself inside until they were joined at the hip.

Mario’s eyes rolled back, his hands scrambled for purchase on the lining of his bunched up vestments, his legs locked around Cavallo’s back. What he lacked in vibration, he more than made up for in warm and in length and in _girth_. Each thrust made an obscene wet noise, the only sound save for heavy breaths and guttural moans. Mario’s cock was trapped between their bodies, on fire from all that friction after such prolonged neglect. Whenever his eyes fluttered open, he’d glimpse Cavallo’s form above, backlit by the window. Dark, so dark Mario felt that when all was said and done, he’d be swallowed up and live in perpetual dusk.

_Be not afraid._

Ah.

A roll of the hips. A smothered cry. Mario’s hands flew up to grasp the wrists beside his head, skin on skin again, his back arched, and hours of pent-up desire shot out in ropes onto his stomach in short, powerful bursts.

His tensed muscles started to relax, his breathing to slow down. Cavallo let the _fascia_ slip off Mario’s face, freeing his hands to pull him a little lower, for better access, an angle that let him drive his cock in deeper, faster. On the wooden desk, Mario watched the ceiling bob up and down in a daze, struggling to keep his eyes open. The profound satisfaction, the light ache in his muscles and joints, the exhaustion – it felt just like stepping off the stage after a rapturous performance. Blissful.

And yet.

When Cavallo’s breath hitched, and his short nails dug into Mario’s flesh, and he hilted himself to pump Mario’s hole full, the image of Bernardo’s warm, smiling face flashed through his mind.

Fuck.

Absently, he felt Cavallo gently pull out. Before he had time to process this new emptiness, let alone mourn it, he found himself being pulled up by the hands into a sitting position, face to face with his assistant.

Cavallo was serious, examining Mario’s features. It didn’t take long for discomfort to set in.

‘What is it?’

Cavallo held the silent stare for one more beat, then eased back into a casual smile. He brushed a bead of sweat off Mario’s cheek with his thumb.

‘I didn’t even have to tell you to touch yourself. You came just from your cunt. It must be nice to be such a slut.’

Mario didn’t say anything, rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and inspected his clothes for damage, legs dangling off the side of the desk like when he was a kid. While the black exterior had thankfully been spared, the inside bore some rather unseemly stains, and both the cassock and the _fascia_ were badly wrinkled. The golden chains stuck to his damp body. He sighed.

‘I’ll get one of your spares,’ he heard Cavallo say.

Mario slipped out of the white button-up he wore under his vestments. ‘You don’t want to see me doing the walk of shame through the Curia?’

‘I’d rather keep your mortification to myself. At least today.’

Even exhausted, those final words still made warmth flicker in the pit of Mario’s belly. Christ. What was _wrong_ with him? Did this qualify as a midlife crisis?

‘Besides,’ Cavallo continued, ‘I need to stop by my office to change, too.’

Mario looked over and saw the indecent white streaks spattered across the front of Cavallo’s black clerical shirt. Cavallo picked at the material, brows raised.

‘You made a mess, but I wouldn’t expect you not to.’

Quickly, he crouched to pick up Mario’s black underwear, wiped the worst of the mess off his stomach, and tossed the crumpled pants into Mario’s bare lap. Clearly, the offer of clean clothing didn’t extend to undergarments. He didn’t even have to ask. He’d be wearing these for the rest of the day.

Well. He could nip out during lunch. It would only take ten minutes, at most.

He _could_.

The faint traces of come still visible on Cavallo’s top were easily hidden by buttoning his jacket, He was entitled to the robes and colours of the _monsignori_ , but Mario had only ever seen him in the discreet blacks of a simple priest. A snake in the grass.

He went to the exit while Mario unsteadily got to his feet, shivering at the oddly nostalgic sensation of come dribbling down the inside of his thigh, and pulled on the sticky underwear.

‘Ah, Eminence,’ said Cavallo, turning away from the door again, ‘before I forget. About Friday night. You’ll wear your crucifix, your chains, and your matching gift. Won’t that be fun? The rings, too.’

‘The rings?’

With an entire drawer dedicated to that accessory, he needed more information. Cavallo gestured towards his own chest. Lighting a well-earned fag, Mario took a drag and cocked his head.

‘I can _bring_ them, but we’ll just be looking at them. I don’t have pierced nipples. You know that.’

‘I do. But we have the whole weekend to fix that.’

With a jaunty wave, he stepped out of the office. Mario heard the lock click shut a second later. That meant he could wait without putting the rest of his stained clothes back on. Even if it was a little chilly in here, at least it’d keep him awake. Cavallo would be back soon. For all the concessions of their strange relationship, he was a perfectly competent right-hand man. If he said he’d do something, he did it.

Mario leaned against the bookshelf and smoked, watching the Roman sky that surrounded the dome of St Peter’s Basilica. That parting suggestion was a ludicrous thing to say to anyone, let alone a Cardinal. The nipple Cavallo tormented earlier complained with each heartbeat, as if reminding him just how bad an idea it was. A final provocation before they slipped their public masks back on.

Clouds drifted by at a leisurely pace. The breath he took through the burning end of his cigarette seared its way down his throat.

He _knew_ just how bad an idea it was.

But come Friday night, lying on a bed that wasn’t his own, decked out and plugged up with all his finery, if Cavallo came bearing a needle and a flame, Mario Assente knew he wouldn’t say no.

For his comeliness was turned into corruption, and he retained no strength.


End file.
